Choices
by LGold
Summary: Three choices Andrew never made.


"May the force be with me," Andrew muttered, glancing at the glowing sign above his head. It hadn't been easy. He could still feel the bruises on his side from when he'd refused to give Warren his lunch money three times over the last fortnight, and he doubted that they'd fade for a while. Now, though, he had twenty dollars of that lunch money in the pocket of his jeans. His _best _jeans. They'd only been in his possession for a year, and they barely showed _any_ of his socks. He'd put them in the wash two days previously, bubbling with anticipation, carefully timing the chore so that they'd come out as close to this evening as possible.

And now here he was, standing outside the Bronze, _the _coolest place in Sunnydale. No; cool didn't do it justice. "Temple of Beauty," he muttered, staring at the sign heedless of the teenagers jostling him as they entered and exited, never taking any notice of him. "Palace of Awesome. Realm of Ultimate Cool."

He gulped as he looked for the first time at those entering the Bronze, rather than at the Bronze itself. Tall, toned, fashion-conscious and body-confident, every last one that Andrew saw. He wasn't delusional – well, not _that _delusional. He knew what he looked like. He knew that he wouldn't fit in here, just like he knew that everyone _else _would know that. No-one knew he was here – he hadn't even told Tucker of his plan, his shameful little dream.

_(And in another universe, Andrew shrugged, and shook his head, and pretended to look at his watch and appear shocked at the time and walked away, quickly. For that Andrew, the Temple of Beauty and all its worshipers were always a mystery wrapped in an enigma set on a pedestal.)_

But he had his hard-kept lunch money to live up to, and his freshly washed jeans. He didn't fit in yet, but he could learn to fit in. Who knows what can happen in the future?

Andrew made his choice, and paid the bouncer, and entered the Bronze for the first time in his life.

* * *

Okay, so he'd only been eight when he'd first seen _The Living Daylights, _but he'd liked it. Really liked it. He still watched it once a year, every year, on his birthday, though nowadays he made sure that Tucker was nowhere nearby when that happened. It wasn't that he, like, _like _liked Timothy Dalton; he was just _so cool, _with the parachuting and the assassin-chasing and…

But _Sean Connery? _Warren liked _Sean Connery? _Sean Connery was to Timothy Dalton what … well … uh … well, he was just really bad! Boys and men! Boys and men! (Although Andrew realised that he probably shouldn't try making that point to Warren.)

"_Moonraker_?" came Warren's scathing voice, and Andrew realized that the conversation had continued in his reverie. "The gondola turns into a hovercraft? It's retarded. Besides, the guy had, like, no edge."

Edge. That was it. Dalton had had edge, and Andrew, even at eight, had been just a little thrilled by it. He hadn't even seen Star Wars back then – though he'd never tell Warren or Jonathan that – he'd been a Bond man through and through. Timothy Dalton's Bond was who Andrew wanted to _be. _And Warren was saying that…

Andrew opened his mouth in righteous indignation, and then paused, and made his choice, and closed it again.

_(And in another universe, Andrew said: "Dalton had edge. In _Licence to Kill_ he was a rogue agent. That's edgy. And he was amazing in _The Living Daylights._" And the argument continued.)_

Silence reigned in the van.

Then Warren chuckled uncomfortably, and said, "And the chicks Connery nailed were always hotter. And come on, Dalton "only kills professionals." What Connery does to Professor Dent in _Dr No.? That's _what secret agents should do."

Andrew paused in his resetting of the equipment, but managed to stop gaping before Warren noticed. Still, it was with a slightly heavier heart that he saw Buffy approaching, and watched Jonathon's "Stall Buffy" plan unfold.

* * *

It was kind of terrifying, Andrew had to admit. He'd had images of redemption and sacrifice and glory in the fires of battle, but instead there were just… vampires. Loads of vampires. There was the odd Bringer, but mostly it was all about the vampires.

He'd given up trying to spell it with a y.

And there was Anya, looking far less photogenic than she'd ever done eating grapes or tending to the wounds of the potentials in a motherly-and-yet-at-the-same-time-kind-of-hot way, but fighting all the same, fighting to save the world and everything in it that was good and bad and human, and Andrew felt a sudden rush of respect even as he attempted to wave off another vampire.

And then, suddenly, it wasn't vampires; it was Bringers. Andrew and Anya were beset by them, and, as he flailed with his sword, he saw Anya stab one before her as another came at her from behind…

Andrew made his choice.

_(And in another universe, Andrew stood, shell-shocked, a little away from the bus, and said to Xander: "She was incredible. She died saving my life.")_

Anya looked behind her at the scream, and rolled her eyes a little when she saw the body. Still, her lips tightened a little, and she fought even harder for the few square feet that contained both her and Andrew's body.


End file.
